I have too many hobbies

Ch. 2) can you see me longing for you?

Words: 6,825

Hours pass around Copia though he stays standing still. He didn't know how long it was until he moved from his spot on the bed to lie down and happened to glance at the clock on his nightstand.

The silence that permeates through his apartment is oppressive. It pushes him down and keeps him from moving. Copia can still smell her in the pillows and rolls on his side to bury his face into one. Something breaks in his heart; maybe not literally but something isn't right.

For the first time in a very long time, Copia cries. It's an ugly one and he's happy to be alone for it.

"Please come back to me," he wails weakly. It's pitiful, he's aware, but it is what he deserves. Thoughts race in his mind; I should've warned her, I should've been gentle.

Copia stays curled in the fetal position for some time. He's not aware as time passes but it's long enough someone knocks on the door. He doesn't get up right away. A fleeting thought passes through him that it was a figment of his imagination.

But then there's another knock. Harder, insistent.

Copia flings himself out of bed. On one side of his head, his hair rides up, mussed from his wallowing on that side. Puffy and red eyes stare at the front door. Another knock starts up again.

"Sarah?" he whispers.

Don't be so hopeful, he chides himself.

To his discovery, Copia opens his door to see a ghoul. Their hands are clasped behind their back and they stand straight and still.

"Papa." They nod. "I'm here for some of Sarah's things."

And right there was the final blow to shatter his heart. He's sure the ghoul can hear it as he white-knuckles the doorknob. Copia attempts to pick up the pieces as the canvas bag is filled with clothes and her essentials. The ghoul works efficiently, silent and only asking questions to make sure he wasn't taking anything of Copia's.

"Take anything you want," he calls from the refrigerator. He probably needs some blood to center himself but nothing sounds good. In the door is the last bag of Sarah's blood she'd donated for him. Copia stares at it without a care about the cold getting out from the fridge.

Very carefully as if it were a live explosive, he picks it up. Copia's hand shakes; his lower lip wobbles. In an instant, the bag comes up to his lips and his fangs puncture through to the nectar within. He closes the door to the refrigerator with too much force and it jostles the bottles within. Their clinking goes unnoticed.

Copia drinks, ravenous and desperate. It's like she's there again. All is well with the taste of his love on his lips. Blood drips down in his haste and haphazard method. Normally he's drinking it with an air of reverence in a nice goblet. Now he growls, impatient and unsatisfied. Once the bag has been sucked clean, Copia leans against the counter. He dips his head back, groaning and heaving deep breaths. His mouth is covered in blood but he feels like he can breathe again.

The blood bag is tossed into the sink for later. He wets a paper towel and cleans his face and looks around to find the ghoul standing nearby with a stuffed bag.

"So," he clears his throat, "you're done, then?"

"Yes."

"Where is she?"

"Papa Terzo's apartment."

Sarah isn't far away. She's only down the hall. Copia isn't sure if that's better or worse.

"Thank you."

With that, the ghoul bows a few degrees and leaves.

Alone again.

He's not proud as anger bubbles up in his stomach. Copia can't think; it's only red rage that sits with him through the first few days of her absence. The ghouls can feel it wafting off him in waves. Their tails flick in anticipation for any attacks.

Anger mutes all other thoughts and attempts of rationality.

First, it's at Sarah for leaving. He did everything he could to make her feel safe! He checked in and let her have her time to adjust. How could she say she still needs more time? And last night, he only wanted to feel close to her again and Sarah dismissed him!

In an instant, the thought of blaming Sarah for everything makes his stomach turn. The blood he drank earlier comes up and he narrowly avoids making a mess on the carpet on the run to the bathroom. Copia rushes to the tub and drains his stomach of what he thought would be dinner.

Retching feels like a punishment from below like Lucifer himself is saying he's being stupid. His shriveled old heart hoped that this whole fiasco could've been avoided. As Copia leans with is back against the tub now, empty and exhausted, he knows this would've happened anyway.

Head in his hands, the last shreds of his self pity wash down the drain along with dinner.

He mumbles, "I'm sorry," over and over again until he can't.

Sarah wakes up with a headache and a twinge in her back.

And a fluffy cat on her stomach, purring as it sleeps and flicks the tip of her tail.

The cushions definitely need to be re-stuffed, Sarah finds out that morning.

Then the reality of last night falls down in her and she curls in on herself. A headache starts up. Copia was trying to bring something familiar to their situation and she had to go and break out the safe word. That’s what it’s for, she argues back to herself. It wasn’t wrong to say it. He respected it and backed off. So why does she feel like shit? There's a pull somewhere deep in her gut to go back but Sarah can't get herself up from the couch.

Amelia walks out in her robe, still wearing pajamas. “Good morning. How are you feeling?”

For once the question feels casual and not pointed at her situation with Copia.

She moves around the blankets on the couch and sits down, crossing her leg over the other knee. “We’re not working today, if you haven’t caught on yet.”

“Thanks. I feel… exhausted. Completely exhausted.”

“Is this couch that awful?” Amelia smirks. Purrzo jumps up into Amelia's lap and curls into her for pets and scritches.

Terzo comes through the doorway then, buttoning up his shirt. He faces the two women, holding out his arms. “Amore mio, this is my new shirt. Do you like it?”

He’s wearing a black pair of pants with a dark purple poet’s shirt tucked into his pants. Amelia bites her lip, giving Terzo a once-over that can only be described as hungry.

“You can’t wear that,” Amelia starts and his face falters. “at least not around others. I’ll be fighting off siblings with a stick and that's just not fair.”

The cat mrows as if to agree while Amelia absentmindedly pets her.

The worry in his eyes fades when her devilish smirk registers in his brain. “Oh, my apologies tesoro. I’ll only bring it out for private occasions.”

Sarah watches their flirting, the way they seem to focus only on each other despite having company. Terzo and Amelia swap clever barbs a few more times, absentmindedly fiddling with their matching rings before he turns to change into his regular garb. She marvels up to him from the couch, standing to kiss him goodbye.

“Be good.” Amelia kisses his cheek, trying hard not to ruin his paints.

“Am I ever not?” Terzo furrows his brows and smiles, leaning in to return a kiss to her cheek. He leans in to whisper something Sarah can’t hear and then looks back to Amelia with a concerned face.

She nods, taking his hand into hers and squeezes it. “I’ll let you know.”

Once he leaves, it’s just Amelia and Sarah as they scrounge around for breakfast. A ghoul shows up at her door at one point in the morning, holding up a travel bag.

Hers!

“Thanks!” Amelia says, grabbing the bag from him. The ghoul nods and turns to complete another task.

“Is that my stuff?” Sarah chimes in, standing from the couch.

Amelia gives the bag a wary glance. “Yes. It’s so you don’t have to risk meeting Copia when you’re not ready. You should have a few days’ worth of clothes in here.”

She nods, taking the bag. “Can I grab a shower, then? I really need to scrub yesterday off my body.”

“Of course! Let me show you the bathroom!”

Lucky for her, the Papal suites are very similar. It was easy to figure out the shower and after she turned the nobs, she waited for the water to get warm. In the mirror, her eyes look so bloodshot and tired and worn out; dark circles under her eyes reveal the restless nights she’s had in the past couple weeks. Sarah steps under the comforting spray of the shower and hopes the water and steam relax her tense muscles.

She can’t help but think of Copia, remembering what they’d be doing around this time of the morning. They’d spend all the time they can get before separating, lavishing each other with kisses and mumbled words of love. She wipes down her shoulder to her arm with the wash cloth, tracing the trail he might press with his lips and the tip of his nose, now less prominent.

The ghost of him cannot be exercised.

The Caedinal Copia in her head is fuzzy now. Her memories shift Copia back and forth from the old to the new. Sarah closes her eyes and shakes her head in an attempt to wipe the slate clean and start again. She tries to recall one of her memories of him, the one when he’d shown her his rats for the first time. The look on his face, oh, he was so nervous she’d be afraid or think they were creepy. The concerned look in his eye, the bit lip, Sarah had to lean forward to kiss the worry off his face.

It was the day they’d spent in his room after their first date. An entire day filled with soft cuddles and kisses. Tender touches were exchanged throughout and Sarah realized that was the moment she began to properly fall in love. Copia was so happy when she’d said she wanted to see him more. Then they’d kissed each other silly, giggles bubbling out between them as she sat in his lap, wanting to feel as close as she could.

“And now I can’t be near him without feeling sad,” Sarah whispers to herself, now only standing under the water. She stays in the shower a few more minutes before forcing herself to turn off the water. Sarah wraps her towel around her hair and body, stepping out of the shower with a sigh. “I’m so sorry.”

There’s a knock on the door, a little before noon. Amelia opens it, revealing Alex with a stuffed duffle bag in his hand. He's still in his pajamas, curly mop of dark hair in complete disarray as if he rolled out of bed and immediately walked to Amelia's.

“Ok, I've got just about every baking show imaginable on my hard drive, the good snacks, a stuffie, and like three different craft projects to rotate through when one gets boring.” He nods his head forward to let a pair of sunglasses fall over his eyes. “Let's fuckin' party."

Sarah’s eyebrows raise and she looks towards Amelia. "Oh, were you and Alex going to hang out today? I can go.”

"Slow your roll there, Sarah. These are for you. Well not the craft projects, but..." He puts his hands up

“For me?” she asks, holding a hand up to her chest.

“Obviously.” He begins his trek into the bedroom. “Ames, can I set up on the TV in here?”

Amelia follows him in, worried sounds coming from her mouth. “I, uh... Terzo doesn’t want visitors in his bedroom. It's a boundary of his—”

Alex scoffs. “What’s the issue? Am I going to find his stash of weird sex toys in the dresser?” She doesn’t answer right away and he turns to look at her, mouth open and pointing. “Stop—which drawer?”

She grumbles, “Fine you can set up in here. But make sure not to have any crumbs on the bed from your snacks. Terzo will notice.”

He nods and gets to work plugging in the hard drive to his laptop and then plugging in the laptop to the TV. After popping some popcorn and grabbing drinks, the three settle in the bed. Amelia and Sarah rest against the headboard and Alex lounges across the foot of the bed on his stomach. Purrzo jumps up and lies like a loaf on his back. It's her time to nap in the bedroom and she won't have her routine changed because someone is in her way.

“I downloaded a new series where they bake Halloween themed cakes. I’ll queue that one up first.” Alex navigates with his wireless mouse, clicking the first episode.

The three settle into a comfortable silence as they watch the intro, remarking every now and then about design choices. They all agree, fondant sucks.

"That icing witch looks gnarly."

"I could do a much better cream puff."

"Red velvet? groundbreaking."

"Blown sugar with five minutes left? Are they mad?"

Amelia’s phone chimes and she picks it up.

—

Copia: How is she?

 —

Amelia slams her phone screen towards her chest, alerting the others with the slap it makes. Alex and Sarah look towards her, curious.

“What do you have there? Did Terzo send a racy photo?” Alex snorts.

Amelia scrambles. “Sure.”

He rolls his eyes and they return back to the show.

 —

Amelia: It’s touch and go. We’re trying to have a relaxing day so she can take her mind off things.

Copia: She’s in my thoughts constantly today. Please take care of her for me.

Amelia: No need to tell me twice! She's in good hands.

 —

She puts down her phone and gets back to watching the show. Sarah glances to the screen right as it lights up with a new message. It’s from Copia. The words hit her right in the heart.

 —

Copia:

If I can’t do it anymore, please make sure she’s loved.

The ache in his jaw should've been the first sign.

Then the wobble in his hands as tries to take hold of a pen to write or his game controller to play.

Finally, Copia sits straight up in bed. The plushie version of himself falls sideways out of his grip. He reaches for his phone and dials one of his ghouls.

"Copia? Do you know what time it is?"

"I need to hunt."

"Ok, we'll set something up for lat—"

"I need to hunt now, Aether. I feel—fuck." Copia groans and clutches his stomach.

The ghoul sighs on the other end. "I'll see who's up."

And that's how, half an hour later, Copia and a gaggle of pajama-clad ghouls and ghoulettes huddle deep into the woods waiting for their directions. Cumulus didn't even have time to take out her rollers. The plan is simple, really. His nerves have reached a fever pitch and he needs to do something about it. Good old fashioned hide and seek.

The ghouls hide, he seeks. The first one he can find and get his hands on, loses. Their blood will be his meal.

"Even though your blood tastes disgusting—no offense."

Dew rolls his glowing, amber eyes. "No, obviously, how could we ever take that the wrong way."

Aether elbows him.

Then Copia covers his eyes, counts to give the ghouls time to hide, and then begins his hunt when the count ends at zero.

He starts tracking Dew first. The smoke scent lingers in the air leaving an obvious trail. Then another, more grassy scent vies for his attention. Copia struggles at a fork in the path and then both scents disappear altogether. He grumbles, growls, and continues deeper into the dense lush of the forest.

Antlers cross in the perifreal of his vision. Mountain? Are there even deer on the grounds? A joyous giggle echoes in the back of his skull just then and his mind feels foggy the next. Copia breathes heavy feeling the ache of his fangs. He winces and closes his eyes, scrunching up his face to distract from the pain.

It goes away and he can't believe it.

"Do you really need this, Copia?" Aether stands a few yards in front of him. He holds his hands out, no sign he intends to run or attack. "I don't think you can keep yourself in check right now."

Copia growls, "Care to test that theory out?" He winces again and nearly kneels on one knee from the pain returning in full force. His fangs are bared, sharp and long and ready to bite.

Aether takes one step forward.

Copia throws himself in reaction. They both crash to the ground. Small, dry leaves and twigs snap and crunch beneath their bodies. Aether groans at the feeling of being manhandled and thrashes as much as he can to get Copia off but the more ravenous vampire latches on with no intent to leave. He hisses at the ghoul, glowing red eyes staring him down.

"Shit!" Aether yells once Copia sinks his fangs into his upper arm. It was the first spot he found not covered in fabric. "Copia, wait—!"

More ghouls make their way out of the woodwork. Aether's legs kick for purchase and leverage to lift himself up and away but when Copia lifts himself up from the bite to hiss and growl a feral warning with his own blood dripping from Copia's mouth, Aether decides to stop. Copia descends back again, ripping his t-shirt first to bite over Aether's heart.

"Please!" Aether whines out into the dark. "Can you guys fucking do something?"

The pack springs into action grabbing around Copia. Mountain takes one for the team and reaches around the front of Copia's face to pull him back and have his mouth unlatch from Aether's body. It works for barely a second and then Copia is groaning deep in the back of his throat, looking around with wild eyes at who dared to interrupt him.

Cumulus and Dew kneel down to asses Aether. Swiss, Mountain, and Cirrus work together to restrain Copia.

"Break his neck!"

"What the fuck?"

"It'll just knock him out for a bit, trust me."

Copia flinches and looks around in a manic attempt to catch up to what's going on. He's defenceless to the strong hands that hold around his head and he starts to plead and whine.

"I'm sorry, Copia."

"Wait—!"

Darkness. Silence. Peace.

He's floating in a dream, he thinks. That can only be the explanation because he hears Sarah's soothing voice before she appears in front of him. She smiling, laughing. It feels far away even if she's standing right in front of him. It's like smoke, she sifts through his fingers when he reaches out. Then she looks up and horror melts her face. She starts to turn away and run. Copia calls out, begging—

"Sarah!"

He jolts up in bed, skin hot as the sun. Was the hunt all a dream?

"Good morning," Dew chirps.

It was real. Copia falls back to the bed with a thud. "Shit." His neck hurts like hell.

"You owe Aether a massive apology." Dew slouches in his chair and crosses his arms. "All of us, really. What the fuck was that, man?"

"I lost control."

"Duh."

He rolls to his side to face Dew. "I thought for once I could…" The words die on his tongue. He could what? Feel better? Fix himself?

Dew sighs and stands. "You really should've given us more time to make a plan."

"Wh-where are you going?"

He's halfway through the doorway. Dew looks back over his shoulder. "I'm getting some blood—ghoul blood—for you to drink. Take your medicine, Papa."

Sarah is late for work and rushes to the studio. She'd heard Amelia puttering around in the morning but Amelia goes in early.

Her alarm didn't go off and she woke up two hours into the workday.

Her footsteps tap heavily on the marble floor. She speed-walks and isn't paying attention to her surroundings. Next thing Sarah knows, she's colliding with a firm body dressed in Papal robes.

"I'm so sorry, Papa, I—"

It's Copia.

She stumbles back and holds her hands nervously. They haven't seen each other in a few days; Copia can hear the rabid pump of blood in her heart as she stares up to him. Instinct tells him to reach out and brush the stray lock of Sarah's hair back behind her ear. Reality crashes in, unsubtle and abrupt at the sight of her.

Dark circles under the eyes, missing warmth from her cheeks, and no light behind her eyes. A small part of him scolds the other that wants to feel comfortable knowing he's not the only one in complete misery.

"I had a bad night. I woke up late… Papa."

He raises an eyebrow, taken aback. "Papa?" She's not sleeping well.

"That's what you are, right? In the daytime…"

"Well. Yes, I suppose..."

Sarah slips away when the silence gets to be too painful and he's lost in thought about her response. He starts up to say something only to realize he's alone in the hallway and talking to himself now.

Don't think about him, you were doing so well, she says to herself. Even if she hasn't figured out how to sleep through the night.

And definitely don't think about how his eyes looked bloodshot. It's her only clue to see if he's affected by her absence just as much as she is. When Sarah gets to the studio, she's barreling through the door and goes straight to her table. It's a ministry mending day and she gets started on her pile to keep her thoughts at bay.

A month of progress starts to crack and crumble.

Sarah's phone chimes.

—

Jack: yeah i'm free to talk. What's up?

Sarah: i'm not sure how to say it.. Copia and I had a fight.

Jack: do you want me to make a visit? I can come kick his ass for making my little sister upset

Sarah: it's not his fault. There was… magic involved

—

Sarah feels herself wanting to shrink the longer the little bubbles float on screen.

—

Jack: oh, right. Your vampire boyfriend got promoted and had to use some fancy magic? I have no idea how you're going to explain all of this to mom and dad

Sarah: I got through to you!

Jack: only because of the bite mark you showed me and a video of Copia's fangs growing. I was about to book tickets for the loony bin

Jack: so what happened?

Sarah: his face changed. It was right after coming home and we couldn't go to his apartment. they moved us immediately into a new place.

Jack: yeah that… that'll do it.

Jack: you weren't able to get used to it and he got mad?

Sarah: yes. But no?

Jack: tell me. I still kinda want to kick his ass

—

She snorts.

—

Sarah: he forgot to tell me the ascension ritual could change him. it doesnt always show up physically. We were BOTH ambushed by the apartment, though.

Sarah: so his face changed slightly and it was enough to terrify me the next morning. we both found out… at the same time. EVERYONE seemed fine with it.

Jack: everyone but you.

Sarah: yup. I'd see flirty hellos to Copia from clergy that never gave him the time of day before it happened.

Jack: those hussies!

Sarah: Copia gave me space and did his best to be there but it all got… foggy. 2 weeks after it happened he came home after a fancy dinner and tried to get flirty. I just. I couldn't do it.

Sarah: and dont call them that

Jack: … he didn't try anything did he…?

Sarah: NO. God, jack, no never. He backed off when I needed him to. But then I left and things are… awkward.

Jack: how?

Sarah: I see him in the halls and call him his title. We haven't actually talked or texted or really anything. and do you want to know what's so strange?

Jack: I know you're gonna tell me

Sarah: smartass

Jack: what are brothers for?

Sarah: I miss him. Every day.

—

It's silent again for a moment. There are no bubbles, no attempts to call. Then miraculously, the typing bubbles appear.

—

Jack: talk to him. I dunno how but I know it'll make you feel better.

Sarah: I was hoping you wouldn't say that. :(

Jack: maybe not *right now* but soon. I doubt you feel ready to go back to "normal" but this long away is eating at you.

Sarah: I haven't slept well since I left.

Jack: do you have your sleeping meds?

Sarah: yes.

Jack: maybe actually take them.

Sarah: you suck

Jack: love you too, Sarah

--

The next time the fates decide to play a cruel joke on her, Sarah has chosen the short straw to ask Copia something. Amelia is in the process of designing a new jacket for the next tour and she wants some input on a very early mockup.

Something about tassels.

Swatches in hand, Sarah walks with every step to his office as if she's walking to her death. She takes slow steps as much as she can to allow time to psych herself up. She can do this! She's already starting to feel some control of her anxieties, to let it ebb and flow on and off of her. A small part of her even wants to see him. Maybe they can talk.

Sarah knocks on his office door and waits. There isn't any call out to her to come in, it's silent for the most part other than a mumble. Curious, she opens his office door.

A gasp pulls out of her chest when she gets a look of the inside.

Copia is at his desk and a ghoul is standing next to him with their arm out. He's bitten into their exposed wrist and drinks with an insatiable thirst. Loud gulps and hums filter out but he stops on a dime, freezing to see who the intruder is.

In a flash, he goes from annoyed to guilty. Thick, black blood from the ghoul is smeared on his face, making a mess of his paints. Copia wasn't neat at all, diving in without a care to feed. Sarah knows he prefers fresh blood in an emergency and she recalls his eyes the other day.

Has he been starving himself? Is this the only way he can feed?

"I'll come back later," rushes out and Sarah turns to leave them with their privacy.

Copia doesn't run after her, too embarrassed to have been caught this way. The feeling of betrayal makes his nerves run cold. He can easily explain what was going on!

The ghoul next to him starts cleaning up their wrist with some of the tissues on Copia's desk.

"I don't think she's that upset," Dew murmurs while he's occupied with himself.

Copia turns his head slowly to glare.

Sarah rushes back to the studio after that, on the verge of tears even though she can't even understand why. He needs to feed, more when he's stressed, Sarah knows that. She wants to be there for him like she always did when he needed blood. Copia always made sure she was so comfortable when he bit her. It was intimate and special, begun with a sweet kiss. The feeding she walked in on in his office was cold, impersonal.

Desperate.

There's light coming out from the window of the sewing studio. Copia, on his way home and curious as ever, walks up to see if anyone just left a light on before they all left for the day. He stops and peers in.

Sarah is hunched over her machine, flickering between sleep to being awake as she jolts up, blinks rapidly, and reorients herself. She yawns and reaches for her water bottle before getting back to the project under the needle.

Copia feels an odd sense of deja-vu settle over him. Memories of when they'd first met, catching her working late and how he would walk Sarah to her dorm. It feels so long ago when they were sharing soft glances and timid kisses to the cheek. The nostalgia makes Copia sigh.

The small sound in the quiet wing caries further than it normally would. Sarah perks her head up and comes face-to-face with Copia watching her. He's nothing but sweet and sorry for making her feel like she's been watched while he waves his hands in some apologetic way.

"Copia?" she mouths. Sarah rolls back and starts to stand but he vanishes from sight by the time she makes it to the door.

Did I hallucinate that? she wonders.

After her brief haunt, she notices how late it is and rushes to clean her table. Maybe Amelia will have something she can eat before she goes to bed. Sarah gets back to her temporary refuge, eternally grateful for them both. She opens their door quiet as possible but yet again, luck is not on her side.

Amelia has Terzo backed into the kitchen counter. Though she's shorter than him by several inches, she manages to keep him pinned in place. An empty pint of ice cream with two spoons sits on the kitchen table nearby.

Terzo leans back an inch for breath. "I always knew redheads were feisty."

"What on Earth do you mean?" she jests. "I only wanted one kiss."

He smirks. "Like you weren't just—Sathanas!" Terzo yelps and jumps where he stands. For some reason his hands fly up to cover his chest despite being fully covered.

Amelia turns to find Sarah with her hands over her face and sitting on the couch. "I'm sorry!" she cries out in a panic. "I can put in headphones if you'd like?"

Terzo's face melts into a deadpan but before he can say anything, Amelia covers his mouth with her palm.

"We were actually just about to go to bed, Sarah. Did you get your work done?"

"Most of it... I think I saw Copia in the window at one point, though?"

"Oh!"

Terzo pulls Amelia towards their room and calls back quickly, "How strange—goodnight, sorella!"

Amelia tries to get a word in but it's too late. Once they're in their room with the door closed, the conversation is over. It didn't look like Sarah was upset, more shocked at the way it all happened so fast. She's too tired to be offended.

—

Amelia: Sorry about him. He gets cranky when he's tired.

Sarah: No problem. Goodnight, Amelia.

—

"Want to pick up where we left off, eh?" Terzo leers as he kisses from the end of Amelia's shoulder up to the curve of her neck.

"Not really, caro."

"Okay." He shrugs and drops it. Terzo turns forward to sink into his pillows. Amelia is curiously silent for a while; he looks over and all she's doing is staring forward with her brows furrowed. "Amore?"

She hums. "It's nothing. Just thinking."

"About what? I'd like to know."

"What else? Sarah and her… situation."

"And how we can speed up the reunion process?"

She shakes her head side to side. "Not exactly."

"I worry that we'll be stuck in limbo with those two. And not just because I want privacy again." Terzo leans in and lowers his voice. "It's been almost two months."

"This is a bump in the road. The kind of bump that makes you think your car is broken but all it did was knock some things loose. It's still drivable at the end of the day." Amelia shifts and rolls on her side towards Terzo. He welcomes her immediately and she gets comfortable with her head on his chest.

He brushes his fingers through her silky copper hair. "When was the last time you had your car serviced?"

"That's not the point right now, Terzo."

"What is?"

Amelia ponders that. "She's getting better, I think. Time away is doing Sarah some good but I worry she'll get too complacent like this. I don't want to push her more than she can handle, though."

"I saw Copia today."

Amelia turns to look up at him, eyes wide. "What did he say? How is he?"

"He is not well, Amelia. The loneliness and silence tortures him, tesoro; he feels like a crucial piece of him, his humanity, is missing. I said I could relate."

She hugs tight around Terzo. They know all to well what it feels like.

And it took them two years to find their way back due to Amelia's own stubbornness.

Terzo sneaks into the living room after Amelia has left for work. Sarah is gathering the last things she needs and putting on her shoes to leave. He slinks over and drops to the couch, startling her.

"Have you ever been to confession, Sarah?"

She's frozen at her shoe and narrows her eyes. "A couple times."

"No need to worry. We don't require you to do it. But I hear it can be, eh, cathartic." He crosses his leg over the other.

He's not done, she realizes. He's settling in.

Terzo starts up again, "Very often we have things we're keeping inside and rarely do we talk about it. As a leader of this church, I am tasked with being the receiver of such things."

"Is this about Copia?"

"It it, yes." He nods solemnly.

Sarah sighs, deep and weary, like she knew this was coming. "I've been stalling."

"You have. Amelia tells me your anxiety is getting easier to manage? How are you with the face thing?"

"I think…" Sarah trails off. The words feel crammed in her head, unable to be properly sorted to come out. Her next breaths come out shaky. "I'm scared."

"Of what?"

Terzo turns to her and he's stunned. Sarah's heavy tears spill from her eyes, streaking down her cheeks. She's blubbering and can't take a breath long enough to even her breathing. Her arms cross over her stomach and she curls inward.

"Oh, per favore ti prego, come here, Sarah. It's okay, hm?" Terzo scoots and wraps an arm around her. Sarah follows and hides in his shoulder, soaking the fabric of his shirt with tears and snot.

"I'm sorry," she replies weakly. "Your shirt…"

"It's no problem."

He holds Sarah close, rubbing her back and letting her know it's fine to cry, to let out everything she's bottled up inside. Terzo waits until she's quieted and hears her breathing even out. He dips his head down.

Sarah manages to find her voice and says, "I want to go back but I don't know if I'm ready."

"Do you still love him?"

Immediately, "Yes," she breathes in a deep breath. "Even if I couldn't look at him. I think that's why it hurt so much."

"You say you want to go back?"

Sarah nods. "Every time I think about it I feel paralyzed. And then my thoughts spiral. What if he actually hates me? What if he sees me and—and—a-and I—" She loses control and breathes in and out rapidly, chasing her breath.

Terzo ushers her back into him and she clings around his waist.

"Despite all of this, Sarah, Copia is still absolutely besotted. He dreams of your return every night."

Fresh, heavy tears begin to fall again. Sarah feels wrung out and spent. Terzo urges her to grab comfier clothes and relax at home today. He sends a quick text to Amelia and fills a glass of water for the table. Sarah pulls a blanket up as Terzo sits on the edge of the couch.

"Come to confession later, Sarah? Think all of this over and if you're comfortable, we can talk about it. I promise, it can set you free, in a way."

Sarah blows her nose into a tissue. "Okay."

Terzo leaves the apartment and makes his way to the music studio. There's a lovesick vampire that needs something. Or someone. The next album isn't due for a bit but without anywhere else to be, and with a new home that is devoid of the warmth Sarah gifts wherever she goes, Copia holes up in the studio. Sometimes he naps on the couch and hopes sleep will have him waking up closer to the end of his nightmare.

Creaking, old hinges of the door alert Copia of a visitor. Any lingering feeling of hope dissipates when Terzo comes into view.

A tired grumble leaves Copia. "What are you here for?" He can smell Sarah's shampoo on him and it's bittersweet. "Stay however long you want."

"Copia, something important came up and I need you to cover my confessional duty tonight."

He wants to turn it down but what else does he have to do? Copia sighs, "Fine. I'll cover for you."

Terzo grins far too wide for a simple favor. "Excellent."

"Do you always ask me because I don't need to sleep?"

"Yes."

And then Terzo spins and leaves the studio, a squeaky hinge following after. When the confessional hour rises upon him, Copia trudges down to the chapel. It's the middle of the week and he bargains there won't be as many siblings once word gets around that it isn't Terzo tonight. He brings his notebook and pen and jots down the odd lyric inspiration that comes when he isn't playing games on his phone.

Over the evening, he manages to have a few visitors. Most of them assume it's Terzo until Copia speaks, only to hear and sense their overall disappointment. They follow up anyway with pleasant conversation and he helps with any worries or celebrates achievements. It's getting near midnight and he starts to adjust side to side in his seat. Confession is almost over and then he has to—what?—go home and sit in more silence?

Copia's head shoots up, then, at the sound of the doors opening and closing. And that same shampoo. Terzo? Confession is almost over.

The door on the other side opens, clicks closed, and the late night visitor takes a deep breath before rambling without any sign she wants to be interrupted.

"I'm sorry, Terzo, for coming so late. I kept going back and forth and back and forth and finally made myself walk over. I was just in the garden hoping fresh air would help clear my mind but then I walked past our bench and I—" Sarah takes another breath.

"Hm?" Copia tries to sound like Terzo. He's not sure if he has the voice down right.

She lets out a dry chuckle, "I thought again about going to see Copia."

Again?

Hope starts to bloom anew in his chest. Oh, he could survive the separation just with this knowledge alone.

"What did you conclude?" he murmurs like Terzo.

"I sat down on the bench and so many memories flashed by. I can't—I don't want to just throw away everything. But I—"

"Do you… love him—still—I mean?" Copia winces. He clings to the silence on the other side with a vice grip. There's a chuckle muttered softly through the wood.

"I haven't changed my answer since this morning."

Shit.

Sarah adjusts in her spot and the old wood creaks. "I'm worried that even if I go back, things will be different. Bad different. I constantly wonder if leaving was the wrong option and that it makes me look selfish and we can't go back to how things once were. I worry he loves me less and then not at all, that he resents me and would rather I stay away forever."

"I—uh," his clothes rustle and he makes a fuss to get up. "Hold on for one moment."

That voice. Those little mumbles, Sarah realizes. She sits up straight and braces herself for what's to come.

Deep breath in, long sigh out.

The act is slow when the door to her side opens. In front of her now is Copia, back-lit by the warm candlelight of the chapel. They're both frozen where they are, about a foot of space between them before Copia drops to his knees with a weary thud.

"Copia," she whispers from shock.

He shakes his head and reaches out for her. Sarah rests her shaky hands in his gloved palms and he squeezes them tight. Copia bows and presses his forehead to her hands before sitting back up.

His breaths come out, shuddered like he can't believe this is happening. "I would never resent you."

He huffs out a small laugh at whatever expression must be on your face while you go through these mental gymnastics. “Sorry—I come here all the time, and normally they just start making  my food when they see me locking my bike up outside, and then someone slides it onto the table without saying anything.”

Oh. Okay, that makes more sense. “They’ve probably already made it, then, and just didn’t tell me.” As if on cue, the bell in the window to the kitchen rings. “I’ll bring it over and try to remember that for next time. Oh—I’ll get you a water, too.”

The man smiles easily at you, and you take a moment to look him over. He seems a little older than you are, probably around five years, maybe a little more, you think, but he’s well-kept, despite the fact that his hair is kind of sticking up all over the place like he hadn’t bothered to brush it after rolling out of bed. Wire-frame glasses that are barely hanging onto the tip of his nose, striking blue eyes, and—okay. Right. You are at your job, and you need to be working, not giving this man the up-down. “I’ll take a coffee as well,” and then he squints down at your name tag, “uh…Gertrude?”

“Ah—yeah, that’s not my name, they just haven’t made my tag yet, but apparently I have to wear one for customer service, or whatever. Even though it’s not right.” You tell him your real name and he nods, probably because it fits a little better than Gertrude does. “I’ll be right back.”

You run over to the window and grab the plate. Pretty standard diner breakfast fare: two pieces of wheat toast, scrambled eggs, some bacon. You return with the food and a glass of water before scurrying off to grab the coffee pot and a mug. “Thank you,” he says, and it should be a little gross because his mouth is already full of food, but you find that it is actually kind of cute.

Stop that, you tell yourself. Don’t crush on this random guy at your workplace. That never ends well. And besides, you don’t have time for dating. Your current chapter was due two weeks ago, and your advisor has started sending you passive-aggressive emails checking on your progress. Sometimes she doesn’t even put anything in the body of the email, just a subject line that says ‘how many pages have you written this week’ in all lowercase. “No problem. Let me know if you need anything else, um…”

“Oh, right. Ryland.” He lifts up the lanyard around his neck, which has a little ID badge titled ‘GROVER CLEVELAND MIDDLE,’ underneath which is a picture of him and his full name, ‘Dr. Ryland Grace.’

There is a lot to comment on here. You think you live pretty close to that school, first of all, but that’s probably the least interesting thing, because you live close to the diner, too, and so he must stop here for breakfast on his way to work. You settle on the picture, because it is laughably bad: he is only sort of smiling, but mostly he looks surprised, like the flash caught him off guard.

Ryland notices you looking at that and grins sheepishly. “Not the best picture, I know. You think I would be used to the flash since I have to get my picture taken every year. But, no. And of course this is the one going in the yearbook, too.”

“That’s…unfortunate. And also amazing.” Your gaze drops to his full name. “What’s your doctorate in?”

“Molecular biology. So, as you might be able to guess, I teach science.”

“Little overqualified for middle school science, huh?”

He smiles, but it’s a little strained. Oops. You don’t know what you said that is causing this reaction, but either way, it’s not good, because you would really like him to leave a nice tip so you can buy groceries later. “You would be surprised. Teaching middle school is not for the faint of heart.” Wonderful. He’s not totally pissed at you. You might actually be able to eat dinner tonight.

You simply nod and look at him for a little longer, and then realize the coffee pot is still in your hands and is starting to tip dangerously toward the floor. “Enjoy your breakfast! And let me know if you need anything. Just call my name—or Gertrude, honestly, either works, because I’ve already started to respond to it.”

“Actually—” His voice stops you from turning around completely. The coffee sloshes in the pot, and you hold it with your other hand to stop it from spilling on your legs (again), and this is a bad idea because the glass is incredibly hot. You keep it there out of spite and embarrassment. His eyes dip down toward your hand, but he does not comment on it. “Could I get some sugar? For the—coffee. Not like that. Just normal sugar.”

Shoot. You forgot to ask him about that. “Of course. Any cream?”

“Nope, just some sugar. Coffee. Coffee sugar.”

Your eyes crinkle a little at the edges. This is very dangerous. He’s cute, and he has a job, and he is most definitely a nerd who is slightly awkward but still polite. “You’re fine. I’ve been working since four AM, and the late drunk crowd was—well, about what you expect. I got comments much worse than asking for some sugar.”

Ryland winces at that but doesn’t say anything else, so you leave to return the coffee pot and grab him one of the sugar containers from the counter. You watch as he immediately grabs it after you place it on the table and dumps an absolutely obscene amount of sugar into his mug. Like, it is so much. Enough that you wonder if the texture of the drink is now equivalent to wet sand. “I have a bit of a sweet tooth,” he offers, a little embarrassed.

“I might have figured that out, yeah.”

He takes a sip of the coffee and sighs contentedly, eyes fluttering shut. Oh, no. This is bad.

You clear your throat. “Let me know if there’s anything else. I’ll be around,” you gesture vaguely toward the rest of the diner, “for the next four hours or so. Not that you’ll be here that long. You know. Job. Not that I’d kick you out or anything. Okay. I’m going to go now.”

His lips pull into a smile as he raises the mug to take another drink. You turn on your heel to check in on your other table and try not to think about how much of a disaster that interaction was.

The diner starts to fill up a little more as the morning breakfast crowd comes in, mostly old couples and blue-collar workers. You do your best to turn up the charm, adjusting your lines based on the customer, hoping to maximize your tips. Your fridge has been depressingly empty for a few days. Maybe they’d let you take something home from the kitchen.

You stop by his table once to ask if he’s still doing good, and then again to refill his water and coffee. Finally, he signals for the check and already has his card out when you return with the receipt.

After you ring him up, you’re about to walk back over to give him his card and the final receipt when you see the bowl of Tootsie Rolls by the register. You grab one and place it on the table in front of him along with a pen. “Have a good day,” you say, and then after a few moments, you tack on, “and have fun with the middle school science. And that sort of stuff.” What is wrong with you?

If Ryland is wondering the same thing, he doesn’t show it, simply taking the candy and sliding it into his pocket before picking up the pen. “Thanks. We’re doing the Krebs cycle, which will be very fun for me, and possibly less fun for them.”

“That sounds…vaguely familiar? I haven’t taken a science class in—a long time. Probably over a decade.” You try to think back, but not a lot comes to you. “Isn’t that, like, really hard? Especially for middle schoolers?”

He grins and looks up at you, reflexively lowering his glasses. He must be far-sighted, you think idly. “I’m a bit of an overachiever.”

This should not affect you in the way that it does, but suddenly you are wondering if that extends to every area in his life. Like physical ones. Okay, that’s enough of that. “Well—good luck with all of that.”

When you return a little later to bus his table, you grab the receipt and look it over. Generous tip! Score! He didn’t think you were a total weirdo! You bring it a little closer to your face and realize that he’s written something on the back, so you turn it over. There’s a little diagram of the Krebs cycle, complete with little pictures and labels.

You are so screwed.

--

He’s back, two days later, when you’re working again. (Technically, he could have come in on the days you weren’t scheduled, but you don’t want to assume.)

“Welcome in,” you call behind you when the door chimes. “Be with you in just a moment.” This morning had been a little slower—no drunk crowd, just a few truck drivers stopping in for food before getting back on the road. You don’t realize that it’s him until you turn around from the coffee machine. “Oh, it’s you! Your food is probably—” The ding interrupts you. Thank you, bell.

After a few minutes, you slide the plate in front of him (two slices of wheat toast, scrambled eggs, bacon) along with a glass of water, a mug, and the sugar canister. You are very proud at how quickly you learned to carry this much stuff over the course of your first shift. “Morning, Ryland,” you smile, pouring out his coffee.

“Morning, not-Gertrude. Your name tag is right, now.” His eyes flick down. He looks about the same as he did two days ago; hair still slightly messy, the wire arms of his glasses begging to be put out of their misery, lanyard resting on top of his tie. It all creates the same fluttery feeling in your stomach that it did then, too. Whatever. Having a harmless crush makes the job more fun. “Oh, you remembered.”

Ryland is already grabbing the sugar and dumping it into his coffee. “Yeah, it’s a little hard to forget when someone pours a metric ton of sugar into their drink. I don’t know how you still have teeth.” He does the thing again, where he takes the first sip and acts like he’s seeing God. Something does a little flip in your chest. “And I have a pretty good memory. Mostly use it for dates and stuff, but it comes in handy for other things.”

He chokes a little on his coffee. That’s weird. “Er, dates? Like—dating?”

“Oh—no, no,” you laugh, “sorry, I can see how that’s confusing. I’m a grad student in history. So years and those sorts of boring things. I can’t even remember the last time I went on a date.” Hm. That was not a normal thing to say to a customer. “Uh, sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”

“It’s. You’re fine.” He takes a long sip of his water. “Grad student, huh? Masters?”

“PhD. Currently ABD, so. I’m kind of in hell.”

“Oh, gosh, I bet. I really do not miss that. How many years do you have left?”

You watch as he starts piling his eggs onto his toast before taking a giant bite. He really doesn’t do things halfway, does he? The overachiever comment from the other day pops into your mind, suddenly, as you watch him catch a stray piece of egg and pop it into his mouth. “Uh, this is supposed to be my last year.”

Ryland glances back up at you. You should probably end this conversation to go check in on the elderly couple at the counter, but you stay standing there anyway. “Supposed to?”

“I might be. Taking a little longer on my dissertation than I should be. My advisor is—she’s not very happy with me, at the moment.”

He smiles and his eyes go a little distant. You think he might be recalling some memory from his own grad student days. “Well, you know what they say. It doesn’t need to be a good dissertation, it just needs to be—”

“A finished one,” you interrupt, a little grin of your own playing on your lips. “Yeah, I think I’ve heard that line before. Once or twice.”

The two of you just stare at each other for a moment. His fingers start messing with the handle of his mug. They’re nice fingers, you think idly. Probably good at lots of things.

Like grading! That’s what you’re thinking of in that moment. You really need to go back to doing your job. “Well, I’ll leave you to your food. Holler if you need anything.”

He does a little mock salute before you walk away. Unfortunately, there are still not that many customers, which is bad both because you would really like more money and also because now you have nothing to do with yourself. You settle on watching him for a little while, promising yourself that this is not creepy. You are simply making sure he doesn’t need anything.

His water is only half empty, but you are really, really bored already, so you walk over to fill it up. “I forgot to ask earlier—how did it go with your students? The Krebs. Thing. Cycle! The Krebs cycle. And the ATP stuff.”

“Glad to see my diagram was helpful.”

“Oh, it was great. Very detailed. You must be a really good teacher.”

His ears start to turn a little pink. It is adorable. You are in so much trouble. “I don’t know about that right now. It’s—I may have overestimated the ability of pre-teens to understand cellular respiration.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” You have the sudden urge to lay a hand on his shoulder. The urge gets stomped down, because this man is a customer, and this is only the second time you have met him, and to top it all off someone has just walked in. “Welcome in! Take a seat wherever you’d like.” You turn your attention back to him. “Sorry, duty calls. Enjoy your mug of wet dirt.”

You hurry away before you can consider this last sentence over any further in your mind, because you are fairly certain it was one of your disastrous attempts at flirting. For some reason, you always default to playful insults, and—look, it’s been a while, what with the dissertation of it all looming over your head. The last time you’d dated was about four years ago, with someone a few years above you in your program. That did not go over well.

The next time you walk by, he asks for the check, and this time you bring it over with a Tootsie Roll and a mint. Those are immediately swiped off the table and stuffed into his jacket pocket.

There’s no diagram on the back of the receipt this time, but there is a drawing of a little cell guy. Next to it is a speech bubble. Apparently, the tiny cell is saying, “Thanks for the glucose!”

You take a picture in case you don’t remember to keep the receipt after you’ve cashed out your tips at the end of the shift.

(This does not happen. You think about the drawing for the next few hours, and before you leave, it gets gently folded and put in your bag. The receipt now lives taped up on your wall next to your desk.)

--

You are scheduled the next three days in a row. He comes in for two of them, Thursday and Friday, and each time you give him some candy with his receipt, and in return you get two more little drawings. One is a diagram of mitosis. The other is a mitochondria, with a very long pun about being the powerhouse of the cell. You wonder how long it took him to think of it, or if he just had that at the ready.

After your shift on Saturday, the day that you do not see him, you buy a variety pack of candy with some of your tip money. You tell yourself that this serves two purposes: one, so you can have a snack while you work. The second one is very obvious, and does not need to be acknowledged.

--

Ryland immediately notices the new candy selection.

“Wow, Skittles? I’m really getting the five-star treatment here.” This time, instead of putting the candy into his pocket like usual, he immediately opens the bag and chucks a few into his mouth. “Thanks. I didn’t even know you guys had these here.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess. I found them—in the back. Where things are stored.” If by ‘in the back’ you mean ‘in your backpack,’ then, yes, you are technically telling the truth. He doesn’t need to know all of that.

“How’s the dissertation coming?” He laughs when he sees the face you’re making. “Sorry. The dreaded question.”

You try to let the grimace slide off your face. “It’s—fine. There are. There are words. In a document.”

“Words are good.”

“When there’s enough of them, sure.” A sigh leaves your lips. “I really need to send in this chapter by the end of the week, but the AC in my shitty apartment isn’t working again, and if I go into the department I’ll just talk to everyone. It’s a problem. I’m probably, like, avoidant or something. I don’t know, I haven’t been to a therapist in a while.” What is it with you and oversharing with this man that you serve breakfast to almost every morning? “Sorry. Anyway, I’m thinking I might come here and try to power through the rest so I have something to give my advisor. At least I’ll have free coffee here.” Because your little Keurig is also broken. You are very, very broke. Hence the waitressing job.

Ryland simply nods along and doesn’t comment on the therapist thing. “A change of scenery might be good. Help the words come a little easier.”

“Here’s hoping.” You watch as he finishes the Skittles, shaking the bag so the last few fall into his mouth. His lips are a little stained from the candy. “Well, anyway. If you see me here in a few days out-of-uniform, feel free to pay your respects. Because I’ll be dying on the inside.”

The laugh that comes out of him is a little startled, as if he wasn’t expecting it to happen himself. You blink. The crush is not staying little, not remaining a tiny thing that you keep in your pocket and take out to pass the time at work.

It’s just been a while, you tell yourself. That’s all.

--

You pick a fantastic day to work in the diner, because it is currently pouring outside. While the rain helps cool things down—and therefore alleviates the AC issue—there’s a leaky roof tile in your shoebox apartment that still hasn’t been fixed despite your numerous maintenance requests. The thing drips incessantly, and the rhythmic noise of the water falling into the bin you’ve placed underneath it drives you absolutely insane.

Really, you need to find a different place to live, one that doesn’t fall apart every other day. But that requires money. Which you do not have. So, instead, you put the bucket down to catch the dripping, hoping that it won’t overflow in the time that you’re gone, and drive to the diner. Normally you just walk, but it is literally apocalyptic outside. Maybe, you decide, if you manage to finish your chapter, you’ll drive to the nearby strip mall and treat yourself to some window shopping. (Again: no money.)

The diner provides just the right amount of background noise to help you settle in. Well, it would, except you’ve been staring at the cursor in your document for about eight minutes straight, like you’re expecting it to do something on its own, but it simply blinks back at you.

The door chimes as it opens, and you reflexively glance up before returning to your staring contest. Then you look up again, because it’s Ryland, and he currently looks like a wet cat, both in terms of misery and being drenched. He sees you after a moment, and you offer him a little wave. (It’s one of those incredibly awkward ones, where you’re worried that the person you’re waving at might not see you, but obviously he’s going to see it, because he’s looking right at you, which just makes it all even more awkward.)

His shoes squeak against the tile flooring the entire time he walks over, until he plops down into the booth to sit across from you. He takes his helmet off and sets it on the table. Water drips from his hair, and one of the little rivulets slides down the bridge of his nose. That is—that’s an image to review later.

“Morning,” Ryland says cheerfully, in spite of the fact that he looked about ready to cry a few minutes ago. “It’s a little damp outside.”

“…Yeah. I think you might have brought the entire Bay in with you.”

Gertrude (whose name tag you borrowed for your first shift) comes by and slides Ryland’s breakfast and a cup of coffee in front of him without a word. Hm. He really doesn’t talk to anyone else who works here, you realize, because otherwise he probably would have made a joke about the chances of two Gertrudes working in the same diner on that first day.

You don’t know what to do with this information.

Nothing comes to you, so you chuck it away somewhere in your mind before sliding the sugar over to him. He smiles gratefully and starts concocting his cement mixture of a beverage. “So. How’s the writing coming?” You say nothing at this, simply resting your elbow on the table and smushing your face into your hand, giving him the most despairing look you can conjure. “That bad, huh?”

A frustrated noise grumbles in the back of your throat. “It’s just—I know what this section needs to do, and I’ve outlined it, but. Every time I write something, it’s shit.”

“Hey, language,” but it’s almost entirely muffled by a piece of toast (wheat) and eggs (scrambled).

“Sorry, Mr. Grace,” you scoff. You’re smiling, though. “I don’t know why I’m having such a problem with this chapter. I thought it would be my favorite one to write, but…”

Ryland swallows his current bite and looks at you for a moment before finally speaking. “Can I see it?”

“What, my dissertation? It’s not exactly easy morning reading.”

He waves his hand and starts sliding your laptop around to face him. “I’ll just look at the abstract and the intro to your current chapter.”

Then the only sounds are him clicking around the headings of your document and the bustle of the diner. This is, possibly, the worst: watching someone read your dissertation right in front of you, with nothing to do but wait for them to finish. At least when you send things off to your advisor, you don’t have to watch her angrily leave comments. Sometimes they highlight entire paragraphs and just say ‘bad.’ Super helpful.

After a little while—but not as long as you expect; he’s a shockingly fast reader—he nods and looks back up at you. “Take my advice with a grain of salt, because this is way out of my field of expertise, but I think you need to move your current section up. It makes more sense to go before the previous one, which seems to me like it’s actually the crux of the chapter.”

You blink at him a few times before slowly dragging your laptop back in front of you. You look at your chapter introduction again, and then skim the section he’s talking about. “Huh. That’s actually—I think you’re right.” You look up at him. “That’s the most helpful advice I’ve ever gotten on this thing. Genuinely. Can you be my advisor?” Ryland simply laughs at that and takes a sip of his coffee. His eyes do the thing. It’s fine. You’re fine. “Seriously, though. How come you’re not in a department somewhere with a cushy office? You’d have grad students lining up out the door.”

The coffee mug is set down gently. “I was, for a little while. Then—well. I might have. Kind of implied that someone wasn’t worth the organic materials they were made up of. At a conference. Um. The UNESCO conference. In Denmark.”

He looks at you while you take in this information. Finally, you say, “This might sound really insensitive. But that’s kind of awesome.”

This draws another laugh out of him, the startled one, and you can’t help the massive grin that grows on your face. “Really? It’s awesome that I insulted one of the most preeminent microbiologists alive and got my funding cut?”

“Well. When you put it like that, it’s less awesome. But do you know how many scholars there are in my field that I would love to call an idiot? There’s a lot,” you answer for him. “Do you miss it?”

“Honestly? No. I actually enjoy my life now.”

“There you go. That’s all any of us can hope for.”

Ryland starts fiddling with the spout of the sugar canister. “Yeah. My colleagues had a slightly different opinion, back then.”

“Fuck ‘em.” You don’t give him the time to call out your language again, even though you know he’s (mostly) joking when he does it. “I mean it. Obviously, I would kind of kill to have been in your position, because getting a tenure-track job feels less likely than winning the lottery, but if you’re happy, who cares what they think? You’re, like, preparing the next generation to be capable citizens, or whatever.”

He doesn’t say anything at that. He simply stares at you for a while with an unreadable expression. This is a new one, one that you haven’t seen on his face before—not that you spend that much time looking at his face (you do)—and you find that you would very much like to know what it means.

You do not get to, because then he’s looking down at his phone, and his eyes go wide. “Shoot. I am going to be so late.” Right after he pulls out some cash and slams it on the table, there’s a loud clap of thunder. The timing is almost comical.

“Ryland. I drove here. Do you want a ride?”

You think he might be getting ready to politely refuse, but then he glances at the window and the way the rain is pummeling the glass. “…Possibly.”

--

“I have to ask,” you say, white-knuckling the steering wheel, because it’s kind of hard to see out the windshield at the moment, and you really need new wiper blades (the reason you have not gotten them should be obvious at this point), “how exactly did you word the thing you said? At the conference?”

He clears his throat beside you. “I believe I called him a ‘staggering waste of carbon.’”

“Oof. That’s good.”

Ryland simply hums and then points out the window. “It’s the next turn, there.”

Then you’re pulling up to the school. It really isn’t that far from the diner. “Here, give me your phone.” You hold your hand out expectantly.

“Uh—why?” He looks at your hand like you’re holding a bomb.

“So I can drive you back to the diner later? Since you had to leave your bike.” It hadn’t fit in the back of your car, because the thing is really just a tiny, glorified bucket of bolts. You wiggle your fingers a little. “Give it here.”

After a few beats, he shifts in your passenger seat to pull his phone out before unlocking it and placing it in your hand. You tap your number in and set your contact as ‘Not Gertrude.’ Hopefully he gets a kick out of that. “Here. Text me when you’re done and I’ll come get you.”

He looks down at the new contact. The corners of his mouth lift up and his nostrils flare a little. “Will do. Thank you, again. Seriously.”

“Of course.” Ryland moves to open the door. “Wait!” You reach your arm back to grab your backpack and then dig around for a little while, until you finally produce a little snack-size bag of Skittles and toss it at him.

It hits his nose, and he does this little surprised squeak as he brings his hands up to catch it. He looks between you, your bag, and the Skittles a few times. “The diner doesn’t keep Skittles in the back.”

“Uh. No. You caught me?”

The new expression is back. You still really want to know what it means. He does not explain. Instead, he opens the car door and runs to the entrance of the school. Just before he vanishes inside, he turns around and gives you a little wave.

--

It is still raining out, though not the absolute downpour it was in the morning, when you get the ‘All done here!’ text from Ryland.

“Oh, thank god,” you breathe, because you think if you have to spend another second writing you will launch yourself into the sun. You quickly gather up your things and holler, “See you guys next week!” to the kitchen before leaving.

The drive to the school is less harrowing than it was earlier, since you can actually see further than five feet in front of your car. You pull up to the curb and park—hopefully you won’t get towed—and then pull out your phone to send a quick ‘here!’ back to him.

Then you wait. And wait. At one point, you realize that you haven’t added him back as a contact, so you spend a few seconds staring at the blank name line before simply putting in ‘Ryland Grace.’ You didn’t have anything funny like ‘Not Gertrude.’

After about five minutes, you start to get restless. “Fuck it,” you mutter, and you turn the car off and step outside. Your car probably won’t get towed. The rain feels kind of nice, so you walk leisurely up to the door. It’s locked, and you have to press the little intercom buzzer. “Uh, I’m here for Ryland Grace?” Nobody says anything back, but you hear the door click.

Hm. Slight wrinkle in the plan. You have no idea where his classroom is. Thankfully, the admin office is right by the front door, so you pop your head in. “Hi. I’m looking for Mr. Grace? I’m just—I’m giving him a ride home, and he didn’t respond to my text so. Now I’m here. Asking where his classroom is.” They probably didn’t need all of that information.

The directions are only slightly confusing—something about taking a left, and then another left, and then the second right, and his classroom is somewhere in that hallway—and you only make one wrong turn on your way there.

“Knock, knock,” you call into the room.

He jumps from where he’s sitting behind his desk. “Oh, crap, sorry. I got distracted—grading—you know how it is.”

You simply hum while he rushes to gather up his things. His classroom is kind of amazing. Plants, dioramas, cute posters, even a model of the solar system hanging from the ceiling. “How long did it take you to put all of this together?”

“Hm? Oh.” Ryland looks at you, then, gazing around the room in awe. “A few years. We don’t get extra money to decorate, so it all had to come out of my own pocket.”

“Damn.” You smile at him. “It’s really nice. I think this proves my point. That you’re a really good teacher.”

“…Thanks.”

It’s quiet, then, and he doesn’t move from where he’s standing. You’re about to ask him about the look, the new one, the one that is on his face again, but you don’t. Instead, you clear your throat. “Ready to go?”

--

Later that night (like, very much later), you finally send your chapter off to your advisor. Ryland had turned out to be entirely correct: moving the section up immediately made everything flow better. The relief that washes over you when you hit ‘send’ is almost indescribable.

You pull out your phone and stare at it for a few seconds before opening your messages up. It’s late, very late, and he’s probably not even awake, but you send him a picture of the email in your ‘sent’ folder anyway. The attached document in the picture reads ‘FINAL final draft 5.4.’

it is done

Then, about five seconds later, you’re picking your phone up again, because he’s already responded. The tiny workplace crush is, possibly, no longer just a crush at all.

That’s awesome!

What are you going to do to celebrate?

idk, probably put a bunch of stuff in my amazon cart and then never buy it

i have no money

in case you didn’t know that by now

I might have realized that at some point

You should actually celebrate, though.

You get up from your desk to lay on your bed. It feels a little like being a high school teenager in a movie.

i’ll probably just go to bob’s

Bob’s? On Sycamore?

yessir

That place is a crap hole.

It is adorable that his no cursing schtick extends to texting. This whole exchange is kind of adorable, actually.

yeah but it’s MY crap hole

wait

that sounds really gross

ignore that

they have cheap drinks and a pool table

what more could a girl ask for

also, sometimes the bartender gives me a free shot if i flirt with him a little

He doesn’t respond right away, and you bite your lip nervously. Was that too many texts in a row? Or maybe it was the bartender thing. You’re about to type out ‘jk but really it’s just close to my apartment’ when you finally get another text.

When do you think you’ll go?

You really, really hope this is implying what you think it is.

probably tomorrow night honestly

it IS a friday after all

tgif and all that

and i don’t work on saturday so. no need to worry about the hangover

What time?

This is silly. The excitement that you are feeling right now is just silly. The thought does not stop your cheeks from hurting at how much you’re smiling.

like 7

that way i can get drunk and still go to bed at a reasonable time

i’m not as young as i used to be

You stare and stare as the three little dots come up, and then disappear, and then reappear again. Finally:

I’m really bad at pool

Like, really bad.

Disastrously bad.

that’s ok

loser buys the winner a drink? :)

I was probably going to do that anyway

You’re broke, remember?

ouch

you wound me

Am I wrong?

…no

I’ll see you tomorrow

:)

You stare at the smiley face until your eyes start to drift shut, and you fall asleep holding the phone to your chest. It is very teen rom-com, and it is wonderful.

--

Ryland is right: Bob’s is a crap hole.

It is dark, and a little dingy, and the bar is cash only, and the door handle to the bathroom sticks a little. It is, possibly, your favorite place in this entire city, because it’s been there for you through everything: moving, getting over the breakup with that older grad student, passing your qualifying exams, birthdays, everything.

You take it all in with a small smile as you wait, sipping on your drink and guarding the pool table with your life. It’s really not necessary, because it’s only seven, and for now there’s only a few regulars sitting at the bar and a couple making googly eyes at each other in a booth.

A little bit of the condensation from your glass drips onto your jeans, and you frown and try to dab at it with a napkin. You spent way too long, probably, getting ready and trying to figure out what to wear, because it is unclear to you whether this is a date or a friends sort of thing. You know he’s single, obviously, he’s mentioned it before, but you are starting to nervously spiral a little bit. What if he doesn’t like that you’re a little younger? This thought seems a little silly, because you are swiftly closing in on thirty, but—maybe he’s just really weird about it.

All of that is to say that you settled on jeans and a somewhat cute top, because ultimately you are in a dive bar, and you are very serious about winning at pool and getting that drink. A complicated outfit will not be getting in the way.

The door finally opens again, and Ryland walks in. The place is tiny, so it does not take him long to spot you by the pool table. He is—he looks very cute, your mind supplies unhelpfully. His shirt has the periodic table on it, and underneath it reads ‘I WEAR THIS SHIRT PERIODICALLY.’ His jeans. Fit him very well. And the dirty canvas shoes are right at home in the bar.

Finally, you notice that his hair is slightly styled. Not much, and it’s still a little messy, but it seems deliberately ruffled, rather than the afterthought it usually is.

You do not have the chance to consider this any further, because he’s stopped walking to stand right in front of you. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Congrats on the chapter.”

“Thanks.”

“You already have a drink.”

You look down at the glass in your hand. You had already forgotten it was there. “I might have gotten here a little early. To scope out the pool table.”

“I see.” He glances behind you at the table, then, which you have already inserted quarters into, and the pool balls are already racked. “I’ll go grab a drink,” he nods towards the bar. But then he doesn’t move, not yet. “Is that the bartender?”

“Uh. Yeah.” You are wishing you had not shared that little tidbit with him.

Ryland nods and seems to be turning something over, very carefully. “Maybe—don’t flirt with him tonight.”

There’s no time to ask why, because he’s already walking away to order something. You already didn’t have any plans to flirt for a free shot, anyway, but now you almost want to, just to see what Ryland would do.

You watch him walk away and then lean against the bar top. You’re not—you’re not looking at anything in particular.

Okay, just one little look.

How are you supposed to—this is so unfair.

--

“You lied to me,” you say accusingly. “You are such a liar.”

He sinks another striped ball and walks around the table. “In my defense, I really thought you were going to be a lot better. You were the one who brought up pool in the first place.”

You gasp with mock offense. “I can’t believe you just said that to me. On today, of all days, when we’re celebrating my dissertation chapter.”

Another ball shoots into a pocket. “I’ll still buy you a drink.”

“Absolutely not. I need to win that drink. It’s about the principle.”

Ryland finally misses—likely only because there really weren’t any good angles—and you step up to the table. “I think you should—”

“Don’t coach me. The principle.” You line up your shot very, very carefully. “Watch. This is where the comeback starts.” If anyone were to ask you about your positioning right now, you would very tactfully answer that there is nothing purposeful about the way you lean over the table or the arch of your back.

You take a deep breath and—“Son of a bitch!” He raises his eyebrows when you stand up, a smile playing on his lips. “Don’t even, we’re in a bar.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, but you thought it.”

Your brain kind of can’t handle the look he’s giving you at the moment, so you turn your attention back to the table. Of course, you’ve given him the perfect angle, and he wastes no time to—

He misses.

You narrow your eyes at him. Ryland simply shrugs. “Lost my grip.”

“Uh-huh.”

He lifts his beer to his lips, watching you the entire time with a grin. “And I didn’t re-chalk before my shot.”

“Everyone knows that the chalk is just to look cool. It doesn’t do anything,” you scoff.

The bottle stills against his mouth, and then he slowly lowers it. “That’s not—I need you to know that that is not true. There’s a physics to it and everything.”

In your mind, there was a version of tonight where he did the incredibly cheesy move of wrapping his arms around you to show you how to use the pool stick. Apparently, the real version is him animatedly explaining the physics of pool, how factors like spin and angle affect the shot, the way to account for the friction of the table.

It is, you find, much better than the version you cooked up in your brain, because he’s looking at you the whole time, blue eyes wide with excitement, waving his hands around so much that his beer has started to slosh dangerously.

“Alright. Did all of that make sense?”

“I’m going to be so honest. I checked out for a while there. But I appreciate how enthusiastic you were.”

“What was that you were saying yesterday about me being a good teacher?”

You grin and stick your tongue out a little. You hope the way your nose is scrunching is cute and not stupid. “You are. I’m just a bad student.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “There are no bad students. It just takes patience to figure out how they learn. What’s your learning style?” His voice drops a little at the question. Your fingers tighten around the cue stick. Being asked your preferred method of learning should not be affecting you in the way that it currently is.

There are options here. Either you play it safe, crack a joke, and take a shot that you will probably miss. Or. “I’ve always been a pretty tactile learner.”

Ryland hums. “I see.” Then he walks around the table and stands behind you. “Line up your shot,” he murmurs. You think that you might explode, because actually, it turns out, you do get to have the version of the night you concocted in your mind while getting ready.

It is suddenly very difficult for you to concentrate on anything, but you step forward and lean down, aiming for the red ball in front of the back right pocket. His arms come around you, then, and his hands slide over yours. You watch his fingers curl around your left hand. Yes, you think, his fingers are good for a lot of things.

“Keep your dominant eye focused. Aim right for the center since you have a pretty dead-on angle. The friction coefficient is around—”

“Ryland,” you whisper, “that means nothing to me.”

“Right. Just—hit it really hard, so the cue ball doesn’t go into the pocket. You want all of the momentum to transfer to the red ball.” His thumb smooths over your knuckles. Something swirls in your stomach.

You nod and try to ignore the way you can feel your hair catching slightly on his stubble. “Great. Hit it hard. Actionable advice, thank you.”

You draw the pool cue back. His arm moves with you, but he’s careful not to contribute any of his own force to the motion. After a few practice slides, you hit the cue ball for real, and it rolls into the red ball with a crack and stops. The red ball shoots forward into the pocket.

“Yes!” The two of you stand up, and you turn around to give him a high five. Ryland just smiles widely as he looks down at you. That look crosses his face again, and you realize how close you’re standing, and that his cheeks have started to tinge red, but—well. You really want him to buy you a drink. And you’re having fun, a lot of fun, and you want to enjoy it for as long as you can, just in case you are reading all of this wrong and it goes south later. “You’re going down. I am the queen of pool now.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “One ball sunk and suddenly you’re trash talking. I’ve created a monster. Also, what about that whole principle thing earlier? About not being coached?”

“Fuck the principle, I want my free drink.”

You’re taking a sip of your current drink, the one you bought with your hard-earned tip money (which makes you realize that he’s kind of already bought you a drink, in a sense), when he suddenly blurts out, “Please don’t fuck my principal,” and then you’re choking and laughing, and a little bit of club soda is coming out of your nose, probably, because the joke is already pretty funny but is made that much better with the curse word. You wonder if that’s a very small reason he is so uptight about not cursing; he can wield those words with so much more effectiveness when he does use them.

He hands you a napkin so you can clean up the mess dripping from your face, and for a beat you’re a little worried that you look ridiculous, but he’s still smiling and looking at you with what you’re pretty sure is fondness.

You miss your next shot, and you find that you don’t really care.

--

Ryland does not let you win, because he is, as you have just discovered, intensely competitive. He still buys you your next drink, which you are now sipping on as you sit across from him in one of the booths along the wall.

“I still think,” you say around your straw, “that I could have pulled that off.”

“How so?” He leans his elbow on the table and rests his cheek on the heel of his palm, lifting one finger up to lower his glasses a little. Which feels unfair, but, whatever.

“It’s a feeling.”

“A feeling.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Doesn’t seem like a ‘feeling’ is based on much evidence.”

You scoff playfully and wave a dismissive hand. “You scientists and your evidence.”

His smile grows. You are pretty sure the two of you have not stopped smiling since he walked into the bar. “Aren’t historians pretty nitpicky about their evidence, too?”

“Irrelevant.”

It seems like he’s about to say something else, but whatever it was going to be is interrupted with a yawn. “Sorry, sorry.”

Right. He worked all day today. You’re surprised he’s still upright. “No, you’re fine. We can finish these and head out, you should sleep.”

It’s his turn to wave dismissively at you. “I’ll be alright.”

“It’s okay. Seriously. I had a really good time tonight. My chapter feels properly celebrated.”

“Good. I know I didn’t read the finished product, but—it was good. You’re a strong writer. Really vivid voice. And you made it really easy to follow along.”

Your face feels warm. “Well, that’s—I mean, you have a doctorate. You have lots of practice reading things like that.”

“Biology articles? Sure. History dissertations? Not so much. But I never felt confused when I was reading it.” He clinks his beer against your glass. “Take the compliment.”

“Okay.” You bring your drink to your lips at the same time he does, and the two of you simply look at each other, long after your drinks have returned to the table. There are—you have a lot of things going on in your mind, at the moment, and a question that you would really like to ask, and you’re pretty sure it’s going to go over well, but.

It pains you to admit it, but you are a little nervous, because it has been quite a while since you’ve done this, and the thing that started out as a little crush at work has turned into something so much larger, a thing that you really do not want to fuck up, and you’re realizing that it’s becoming a lot like your dissertation. It is not a thing that you do not want to do; actually, you want to do it so badly, and it is so important, and you are putting it off because there is comfort in remaining in that in-between stage, of being able to say that you’re doing it but never actually seeing it through.

“Okay,” you repeat, standing up, because this has suddenly become a lot. “I am going to go commandeer the TouchTunes now.”

“…Alright?”

The machine doesn’t like the first dollar you try to put in, which is fair, because you’re pretty sure the customer who gave it to you had used it to snort coke. The second dollar, after some smoothing, is accepted. Score. You scroll through different songs before just typing in one of your go-to’s.

A few seconds later, the song is filtering through the shitty speakers of Bob’s, and you slide back into the booth. “Tears for Fears. Nice,” he comments.

“Thanks. To be honest, this is the only song I know by them.”

“Hey, a classic’s a classic for a reason.”

The two of you go back to looking at each other. You try to steel yourself, because, just like your dissertation, this is a thing that ultimately needs to be seen through. All the way to the end. “I have a question.”

“Shoot.” Ryland makes a little finger gun. It is extremely cute and slightly soothes the nerves bunching up in your chest.

You turn your gaze down to your drink as you swirl the straw around the ice cubes. “Was this a date? Wait, I probably should have led up to that a little more. Except I don’t really know how. Okay. Like I said, it’s been a while since I’ve been on one, and I think I might be a little bit rusty, and I kind of like you a lot, but I have no idea if I’ve been reading all of this wrong. You have this look, you see, and I think I know what it means, but I’ve never asked, and I also don’t know if you’re weirded out by the age gap thing, which I’ve also never asked about either. And. I’m going to stop, now.”

If there’s a God up there, you think, please let the floor open up and swallow you now, because that was probably the worst speech you think you could have given.

But then he’s saying your name, quietly, and you look up at him. “Yeah. You’ve been—your read of the signals is correct. Very correct. I don’t, uh, I don’t leave little drawings for all of my waitresses.”

“That’s good. Good to know. That would probably hurt my feelings.” You feel like you’re about to start giggling like a maniac, because all of the tension in your chest is dissolving, leaving only giddiness.

He seems to be feeling something similar, but then he looks confused for a moment. “Also, ‘age gap thing’? Aren’t you almost thirty?”

“Yeah. Don’t remind me.”

“Hey now. And I’m pretty sure that’s around when that stops mattering.” Another beat. “How old do you think I am?”

“It varies. Sometimes it gets up to sixty because you order the same thing for breakfast from a diner every day of the week. Then it lowers down to upper teens when I watch you pour the entire sugar canister into your coffee. Seriously. I am concerned you are going to develop a health condition.”

Ryland laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and you giggle right along with him, and in a burst of confidence you reach forward and put your hand on his, and you’re thrilled when it shifts to hold your fingers gently.

“Do you—would you like to go somewhere else?” You ask. “Like. A secondary location. But not the kidnapping kind.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, just like it had when he was helping you line up your shot in pool earlier. “Your song isn’t finished.”

You shrug. “We can come back another night and I can play it again. I have lots of singles. Some of them don’t work because I think they were used for cocaine.” You pause. “I’m realizing that I sound like a stripper right now.”

Ryland snorts and squeezes your hand. “Yeah, we can go to a secondary location. I’d like that. As long as it’s not, you know, the kidnapping kind. That’s a non-negotiable.”

He keeps holding your hand as you both get up out of the booth, as you walk out the door and into the night air. Neither of you finished your drinks, you realize, but that’s fine. He’ll probably buy you another.

--

epilogue

“Welcome to my crib.”

Ryland takes in your shitty apartment. You had cleaned up a little earlier, in a spurt of confidence, although the bin that you use to catch the water leaking from the ceiling is still out, because it hadn’t finished raining until this morning. “Wow. This is. It is really a place that someone lives in.”

You punch his shoulder then, lightly, and smile while you kick off your shoes and flick the lights on. “Yeah. I really need to move out. But that requires—”

“Money,” he says at the same time you do. “If it makes you feel any better, you won’t be living on a grad student stipend forever.”

“Here’s hoping.” You walk into your tiny kitchen, then, and call over your shoulder. “You can sit wherever. And by wherever, I mean on the couch, because that’s the only seating I have. Do you want anything to drink? I have—” You peer into your depressingly empty fridge. “Well. There’s water, a half-drunk bottle of Sprite, and vodka. So. Pick your poison.”

“I’m fine. What’s up with the unfinished Sprite?”

You take a quick drink of water before padding over to the living room. “It’s a chaser. For the vodka.”

“Of course.”

Ryland is sitting on the couch, and it’s very cute, because he’s trying to be polite but is also incredibly restless, if the way his knee bounces up-and-down says anything. You climb onto his lap. “Hi.”

“Hey there.” He looks up at you at that, his hands coming up to rest on your hips, and you carefully take his glasses off and set them behind you on your thrifted coffee table. “I kind of can’t see without those.”

“That’s fine. If we do something that requires seeing, you can have them back.”

 “Sounds like a plan.”

Then, before you lose your nerve, you draw your hands up to cradle his face and kiss him, sweetly at first, until you open your mouth, and he groans as you lick along his bottom lip. He squeezes your hips, and his fingers mess with the hem of your shirt a little before slipping underneath it to run along your skin. Yep, your guess is still holding, his fingers are great.

You are about to start grinding down onto him when there is a loud crash, and then the two of you are jumping, and you look behind you. The leaking ceiling tile has, apparently, chosen this moment to collapse onto the floor and knock over the bin of water for good measure.

His chest is shaking with laughter when you lean your head against his shoulder and groan. “Can we just ignore that for now and go back to what we were doing, please?”

“Counteroffer,” he says, still laughing, “I help you clean that up, and then we can resume. And then in the morning you will put in a maintenance request.”

“Deal. And they don’t really respond to those. Hence the ceiling tile that just fell.”

“I probably should have guessed that.”

In the morning, you can’t cook him breakfast because there’s nothing in your fridge, but you order it for him as the next best thing—wheat toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon—and put it onto a plate in the kitchen, wearing nothing but his periodic table shirt and your underwear, as if you had actually cooked it yourself. He comes up behind you and kisses the side of your neck.